


Clouds A-Hunting

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [9]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Abuse, Gen, Vignette, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24101761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: The Joxter has a story to tell Snufkin.
Series: A Study in Snuffering [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/913866
Kudos: 25





	Clouds A-Hunting

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in Nov of 2017 apparently, and have no clue now where I was planning on going with it. So here it is, just sort of existing as I go through old stories and figure out what to do with 'em. Enjoy!

“Did I ever tell you about the clouds?” the Joxter asked Snufkin one day.

They had been sitting in silence, Snufkin with his hands around his fishing pole, the Joxter slowly peeling blades of grass into little curls. They were trying out this whole family thing at the suggestion of Moominmama (who, as it turned out, even the Joxter had a hard time saying no to). So far, Snufkin felt it was going well. It was basically like being alone, but with someone else. Usually.

“No, but Moominpapa told me about some clouds you --”

“Bah!” The Joxter sat up and tossed away his grass. Snufkin scowled at being interrupted. “He probably did it all wrong.”

“He said --”

“Sh!” When Snufkin tried to talk again, eyes challenging, the Joxter just reached out and covered his mouth. “Shut up, let me tell you about the clouds.”

Snufkin slumped back and glanced up at the sky, which was overcast but without any promise of rain. He knew about clouds, had climbed up above them and seen them roiling like the sea dotted with black, spikey islands. They drifted in ways that made him jealous and made him long to follow. The Joxter pulled his hand away, then threw himself down closer to Snufkin.

“There are a few kinds of clouds, you know. Cumulus, stratus, cirrus -- I like cumulus.”

“I like cumulonimbus,” Snufkin muttered, feeling contrary since he had asked for neither a meteorology lesson nor a story. Maybe this was why people hated when he talked about the weather.

“Don’t interrupt,” the Joxter said, swatting him hard on the arm. Snufkin rubbed the spot sullenly. “I like them because they’re so soft and fluffy and perfect for sleeping if you can catch them. But there are storm clouds, too. Nothing so big as  _ your _ clouds, but little pack hunters that harry those poor cumulus clouds. I’ve seen them several times, and having no rope, could only watch as they were hunted.” He turned his attention to the murky grey sky, and a lull fell as he searched for the word he wanted.

“It was… exciting.”

“Exciting?”

“You make me think of my soft sleepy clouds,” the Joxter said instead of answering. “You want to be a thunderhead, but you’re all small and sweet. A sheep wanting to be a wolf.”

Snufkin was silent, since he wasn’t sure what lesson was to be had here. He didn’t try to be anyone or anything but himself.

“Those hunter clouds would tear off bits and pieces of the soft ones,” The Joxter pressed in close and made clawing motions in Snufkin’s direction, black gloved fingers pawing at his arm. “A nibble here, a scratch there, a spray of puff like  _ gutting _ \--” here he jabbed Snufkin in the stomach, which caused him to yelp in surprise, “--a stuffed animal. And --”

“I’m not a stuffed animal. Nor a cloud,” Snufkin said, wriggling out of the Joxter’s grip. He climbed to his feet and tried to brush away the feeling of his fingers.

“What did I say about interrupting?” The Joxter growled as he grabbed hold of Snufkin’s wrist.

“Not to do it, which is exactly why I’m doing it,” Snufkin snapped, though his grumbling quickly gave way to a cry as the Joxter yanked him down roughly. Snufkin pushed himself to his knees and rubbed his shoulder. “That hurt!”

“It’ll hurt more if you don’t sit down and  _ shut up _ .”

Snufkin kicked him.

That was a mistake.

The Joxter grabbed his upper arm in a death grip as he scrambled frantically away, some wild little part of him sensing that things were suddenly dangerous. But it was too late.

The first hit stunned Snufkin, the second sent him reeling. He shrieked -- though being who they were, they were far, far from anyone who could hear him -- and covered his head as best he could as more connected. He didn’t think to fight back, only to protect himself. The Joxter was sitting on him, pressing him into the soft, spring soil, a hand in Snufkin’s scarf, pulling it tight enough to cut off his air, thin fingers curled into a fist.

Then the Joxter was off of him. He dragged Snufkin forward and threw him on the ground. After a sharp kick to Snufkin’s midsection, he settled down again in the grass.

Snufkin curled in on himself, trying to smother his rasping cough, the panic that made it hard to breathe. He had no idea what had just happened, or why, and soon risked a glance at the Joxter through his swelling eye.

“So, I was telling you about these clouds,” the Joxter continued like nothing had happened, eyes on the sky again.

Snufkin sat up slowly and warily, watching Joxter like he might go off any second. And for all Snufkin knew, he might. With his arms pressed to his aching belly, Snufkin hunched down next to the Joxter and let him tell his story, sans interruptions, about the clouds.

“You’re one of those nice clouds, but me? I’m not.”

Snufkin squinted at the glittering water swirling a few feet in front of him. He mulled over the Joxter’s words, and decided, though he dare not mention it, that the Joxter had done his story all backwards.


End file.
